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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28625331">and so he bleeds</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/lemonlumens/pseuds/lemonlumens'>lemonlumens</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Persona 5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Character Study, Gen, Hurt No Comfort, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Panic Attacks, Whump, no beta we die like gender-nonspecific mortal beings, woops! all hurt</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 10:41:54</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,272</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28625331</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/lemonlumens/pseuds/lemonlumens</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Goro Akechi breaks down on his bathroom floor. Then he puts his pieces back together poorly, and continues on.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>super minor shuake if you squint really hard</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>21</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>and so he bleeds</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>i’m not very good with tenses and grammar confuses me. sorry if it shows.</p>
<p>fair warning that this fic is entirely just goro having a panic attack so there’s spiralling thoughts and descriptions. there’s also a somewhat brief description of a corpse and mention of suicide so if any of that isn’t your cup of tea or might trigger you, please take care of yourself and don’t read!</p>
<p>there’s like two lines of super vague shuake if you squint super hard but that could be read as platonic if you want.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Goro Akechi is perfect. He’s intelligent, kind, organized, trustworthy, witty, clever, untouchable, gentle, and handsome.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">That’s what his crazed following of teenage girls believes, at least. He knows that he’s definitely not kind, and he’s most certainly not trustworthy or gentle, but he does think that he’s intelligent, organized, and rational. He’s scheming, conniving, and clever—all in good ways, he tells himself.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He may not be kind, but he is perfect; worthier than anyone else. Above all, he is perfectly sane and fine and put-together. He is not weighed down by guilt, he does not feel remorse or regret, he is cruel and callous. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He has long since abandoned being human, instead opting to let his entire being be formed on rage. And naturally, a being of pure rage feels nothing but. He does not feel happiness, or sadness, empathy, grief, or anything at all. He only ever shifts from feeling nothing but unbridled rage, and feeling nothing whatsoever.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Goro Akechi is no longer human, he does not feel anything, he is not affected by anything, he is always rational, he is unburdened by his sins, he does not doubt himself. He believes that all these statements are the pure, unadulterated truth.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1"><span class="s1">So why, </span> <em> <span class="s2">why</span></em><span class="s1">, has he collapsed against his bathroom door, crying? Why does his mind wander late at night, thinking if the path filled with destruction he walks is truly the only one? Why does seeing that stupid attic-dwelling delinquent’s face make him wish for a reality where he never became his father’s hitman? Why, when seeing just how much a certain orange-haired girl has shut herself away from the world, does he think of how he shot a certain cognitive pscience researcher’s shadow, and how that girl’s life would be different if he hadn’t killed her mother? Why does he see his hands red with blood for a split second before he blinks and pulls his gloves on? Why, when he closes his eyes to sleep, does he hear a gunshot—</span><em><span class="s2">his</span></em> <span class="s1"> gunshot—ring out? Why does he keep going?</span></p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He’s breathing raggedly now. He’s still slumped against his bathroom door, sitting on the cold tile floor. The lights are out, the room only illuminated by the moonbeams dancing through the small window, not that he could see much with tears blurring his vision, anyway. There’s nothing to hear except the occasional plip of water from the faucet, and his own shallow, frantic breaths echoing in the small room.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He’s okay, he tells himself. He’s absolutely fine. He’s not hyperventilating—he can breathe perfectly fine if he wants to, thanks. He tells these things to himself over and over, as if it’ll help. It doesn’t work. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He’s still breathing rapidly—maybe even faster, and his thoughts are still filled with meaningless questions. His face is wet and blotchy from tears that aren’t going to stop anytime soon.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He’s in control, he tells himself. He’s in control of everything. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1"><span class="s1">He’s in control of himself right now, even when he continues to silently sob and loudly gasp for breath. He’s in control of his emotions, even when he sees that mop of messy black hair from his peripheral when walking the streets of Shibuya and something he can’t define pangs in his heart. He’s in control of his actions, even when his hands shake and he vomits after inducing yet another mental shutdown. He’s in control of his involvement with Shido, even when he spots the glint of a hidden camera in his living room. </span> <span class="s1">He’s in control of his time, even when his schedule is filled to the brim with school, TV interviews, his internship with the SIU, meetings with Sae over sushi, meetings with Shido, and crawling the metaverse. </span></p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He’s in control of his life, even when he speaks of destiny and fate, even when he’s glorified by the media as someone he’s not, even when Shido is breathing down his neck, even when he knows he’s on a crash course, even when he’s stopped imagining a future beyond taking Shido down, even when he sees the strings he’s attached to. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He tells himself these things, and let it be said, that Goro Akechi is nothing if not a damn good liar.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He’s not hyperventilating anymore; his breathing having steadied, as his panic ebbed and was replaced with numbness. If he’s still crying, he doesn’t notice. He slowly shifts from having his back against the door to being curled up on his side on the cold tile floor. He aches. His muscles from mementos crawling, and his heart from the ever-present deep yearning for freedom. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He feels hollow, as if all that was supposed to be inside him was scraped away, and he knows he did it to himself. He’s cold, the floor beneath him leeching away what little warmth he had. He’s tired, so deeply exhausted to his bones. Yet, his eyes stay open, staring at nothing. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He doesn’t notice if he falls asleep, only regaining awareness when the rising sun paints his bathroom in gentle oranges and pinks through the window. He lifts himself up from the floor and looks in the mirror. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He looks like shit. His face is blotchy, the dried tear tracks are visible and make his face feel stiff, his eyes are puffy and accompanied by deep bags, and he has a large red mark on his cheek from where it was squished against the floor for so long. His hair is unkempt, and he forgot to change out of his detective uniform so now it’s wrinkled and tear-stained.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He splashes his face with water and when he looks back in the mirror he remembers the face of his mother. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He remembers her smiling when he came home from school, remembers her crying at night when she thought he’d already gone to sleep. He remembers her kind eyes, dark red-brown like his, looking at him with something he didn’t understand at the time, but can now place as despair when he asked if his father loves him. He remembers her long hair, light auburn and slightly wavy like his, and how she clutched it like she would pull it out when she looked at the growing pile of overdue bills. He remembers her face, purple and blotchy when it should be smooth and healthy; her eyes, dull and lifeless when they should be warm and loving; her hair, flat and greasy when it should be fluffy and glossy. He remembers every little detail that was wrong when he came home and saw his mother hanging from the ceiling.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He lets the memory fill the hole inside him with abhorrence for the man that killed his mother. He lets the rage wash over him, consuming him. He lets the hatred fuel him. He lets it remind him why he has to see this to the end, why he started this in the first place, and why he’s going to do everything he can to finish it.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He goes about his morning routine: he takes a shower, dries his hair, applies concealer over the dark circles under his eyes, and gets dressed in his spare detective uniform—as the other is now tear-stained. He eats an apple as a light breakfast, pulls on his gloves, and grabs his attache case before heading for the door.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Before exiting his apartment, he resolves once more to enact his revenge on Shido, even if it kills him. He steps out, locking the door behind him as he prepares his mask of the perfect detective prince.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Goro Akechi goes on with yet another day, the same as ever.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>am i projecting? yes. shut up. if you’re here you’re probably doing the same.</p>
<p>thank you for reading and i hope your day isn’t as shitty as goro’s! &lt;3</p></blockquote></div></div>
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